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 Mar 2014 Elise
Charles Bukowski
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.
 Mar 2014 Elise
rachel
I
"It's almost spring..."
His voice was quiet, I couldn't tell if it was because spring meant being happy, or because it meant I was leaving again. He rolled over onto his side as the sun came through the curtains and created stains of light on his bare skin. His hair fell in his face, and I began painting pictures in my head of the two of us together during the next few months.

II
It's been a month since I left him, and I'm stilling painting pictures. It isn't of the two of us anymore though, it's only him. I sketch out the shape of his face and shade around his darkest thoughts. I like to imagine his voice, cooing, in my ear. I write him letters filled with my tears. I don't know if he opens them but I know that just the envelope screams, "I miss you."

III
Two months, sixty-one days, one thousand four hundred and sixty-four hours since I left him. I didn't want to leave; I wanted to stay, wrapped in his worn out silhouette. I don't know if he'll accept my torn up body anymore. Sometimes, I see his name form in my scars, and I think it's a sign that I should go back.

IV
I've lost track of how long it's been since I left; All I know is that there are forty-one days until I can go back, and that I've begun to smell like tobacco and sunflowers.

V
The sun doesn't shine as much here, and I think it's because the sky doesn't see your beautiful smile. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, I miss you.

VI**
When I walked into our apartment, you weren't there. I don't think you knew I'd be coming back four days early. The second you walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, I saw your eyes fill with tears.
I was back.

"It's almost summer time."
You said these words with a smile instead of a frown, and I knew it was because I wasn't leaving again.
 Mar 2014 Elise
gd
Purple sky.
 Mar 2014 Elise
gd
Sketch a diary in autumn frost
leave behind a sorrow lost.
A night beneath whispering stars and
listen to their voices afar
for they may drift in colossal numbers
yet their words speak -
the words of the wise
and the words of the weak
for there lies a thousand wishes
so hopeful in brindled streaks

And at last they remain -
captured by the stars,
but freed from the night.

gd
I came across this in one of my old journals dated: June 16th, 2011
 Mar 2014 Elise
Tom McCone
but yes, i could
smile at you like an electric fence, could
**** myself over in
a field of happiness, resemblant,
there i stand,
on fire or just waking.

of course, neither of
us needs that, though. my
motions jar and disseminate truth
throughout me:
of foundation stone, or
of necessary monuments i
am hardly built, i
cut breath, breakfast and no class, i
can fall under a bus or
in love with you,

and the dull ache would remain;

and these days would still part.
and some small town would sleep,
all the same. so say
anything, or just idle and
stay and i'll go spiralling
down all the same.
i'll wake up, just watch.
 Mar 2014 Elise
pluie d'été
never trust a writer
because their words
flung into the air
in a whisper
a scream
or dropped
scrawled
in silence
on the emptiness
of a forgotten stillhouette
has the power
to lead you astray

never trust a writer
because they find beauty
in everything
especially sadness
amd the grey
grey sky
that falls at your feet
along the shadow
of your heart
the one you beg
for them to break
to make you
whole

never trust a writer
because they don't always
trust the words
that tumble from their own
perfect lips
they say them for
their beauty
in the sound
in the silence
they say them
for the way they rhyme
with 'forever'

never trust a writer
because he can capture
your soul
with just a look
holding you
the entire universe
and all eternity

never trust a writer
because they may talk
awake
but they dream with their eyes
open
and closed
simultaneously
and you can never
be sure
which character they have chosen
for you
which character
they have chosen to be
to you

never trust a writer
because their emotions
not always visible
always
consume them
like a strike of lightening
cold
burning
inside

never trust a writer
because they always
know
what you want to hear
and what they really
want to say

never trust a writer
because their knowledge of love
is as infinite
as the emptiness
in the black sky
stars
moments of clarity
that create an atlas
of who
they fall for

never trust a writer
because normal in life
is never normal
in their dreams
and they always
last longer

never trust a writer
because 'I'll love you for now'
sounds better
when they say it
as 'I'll love you
forever'

never trust a writer
because I swear
they do not believe
in the emptiness
of promises
and they will let you
break their souls
just to see
what happens after
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